S____ might be coming over on Friday but only if K____ F____ doesn’t want me to go over to his place.

So B____’s psychic. I wonder if she knows I like her? I hope so. I hope everyone I like knows I like them. Thing is though, if they were to ask me I’d sheepishly deny it. I just thought of something:

And now the theme to Garbonzo the human enema! Garbonzo the human enema! He’ll make you laught, he’ll make you shit, Garbonzo! Garbonzo! Garbonzooooooooooooo!!!

How about it? Funny eh?

Dear Teen-aged Matt,

I’m getting too old for this shit. Let me describe for you the context in which I am writing:

I am 30 years old and I’ve just moved back to Thunder Bay (yes, we’re living in Thunder Bay at the moment) after spending about a month in Toronto becoming very close and intimate with M____. You have no way to process this information, I’m sure of it. In fact, you probably think I’m lying to you for some reason, but I’m not. The problem is, she’s not with me in Thunder Bay, I’m alone here. We’re going to see how well this is going to work. I think it’s going to be frustrating, but ultimately okay.

My point is, I’m tired. I’m emotionally exhausted and I’m very stressed out about what the future holds. I know what your future holds up to a point, and I’m very frustrated by your daily log of girl interactions. Now you’ve introduced personal confessions of arousal, which I’d rather not think about. Even though I know that in the future you will have a much more public online journal and you will be much more vocal about this aspect of your day. I don’t know why.

Eventually I’m going to run out of hand-written journals to transcribe and respond to and this will indicate that you’ve move on to writing online. I know you haven’t even really started yet, but I should tell you that eventually I deleted all our online journals. Then I went back and tried to recover them using the internet archive, and backups that we’d made. I haven’t yet decided if I want to continue these letters to Teen-aged Matt after I run out of hand-written journals because once you started typing the quantity of your writing overtook the quality of it by leaps and bounds.

I seem to recall that we would spend HOURS online, tapping away at the keyboard of the computer in the basement carrying on about who knows what. Drivel. Self-loathing. Lashing out at everyone else. Continued moaning about not having a job, a girl, etc. etc. etc.

Anyway, we’ll see.

It’ll be easier in a way because I’ll be able to copy and paste the text instead of typing it all out, but I can’t expect anyone to want to wade through your ramblings just to get to some more ramblings from the same you, only older.

Sorry to put it to you this way. I’m only this harsh with you because I know you can take it (and I know you can take it because you don’t exist anymore. You’ve been replaced with me).